


a strange vortex of coincidence

by ScreechTheMighty



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate POV, First Meetings, Gen, I cranked out the first draft in like two hours and I regret very little, Midsummer Night's Dream References, decapitation mention, generous use of headcanons, no beta reader we die like men, quotes from game, torture reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28923261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreechTheMighty/pseuds/ScreechTheMighty
Summary: One strange meeting is followed by another, even stranger one--and with it, comes opportunity. (Mimir's introduction from Mimir's perspective.)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	a strange vortex of coincidence

**Author's Note:**

> Italicized paragraphs are game dialogue, so credit to Matt Sophos, Richard Zangrande Gaubert, and my man Cory Barlog for those parts. Everything else is my interpretation of Mimir's headspace. I love one (1) goat-fae immigrant uncle.

He knew they were gods the second the strangers cleared the cliff’s edge.

The tall one worried him more. Mimir could almost taste it in the air: well-worn leather, freshly spilled blood, and a sharp aftertaste like wine that hadn’t been sweetened enough. He reminded Mimir of Tyr, if Tyr had his kindness and open mind stripped away and replaced by bitter regret. And it _definitely_ wasn’t something from these lands.

It would probably behoove him to be polite to these unexpected guests, but after so long stuck in this cursed tree, Mimir was past caring what this stranger might do. It couldn’t be any worse than what Odin had already done.

_The very topic of conversation. A tattooed man travelling with a child._

The tall man’s eyes narrowed. They looked like molten metal—gold on the surface, with red hot flames underneath. Mimir tried not to flinch under their sharpness. When the man sent the child to go check that they were alone, his voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. The voice confirmed Mimir’s suspicion that he wasn’t from Midgard; he spoke with an accent, and the blunt practicality of someone who had learned the bare necessities of a language first. Mimir couldn’t quite place the accent—he felt for _sure_ he’d heard it before, ages ago, when he was but a young Goodfellow tormenting mortals for sport, but he was having a hard time grasping the memory.

The child didn’t get much chance to speak. He tried to protest, but was quickly overridden, and left with an irritated huff. He was definitely the tall one’s son—same profile, same sharpness in the eyes, but his were blue instead of gold. Beyond those similarities, the boy looked positively _normal_ in comparison. Fair skin, red hair, a few tattoos of his own but nothing out of the ordinary for a young man of his age. Nothing like the rivers of blood red cutting through ashen white on his father’s skin. He spoke the language fluidly, naturally, as if he’d been born speaking it; that, combined with his appearance, made Mimir suspect that he was native to these lands, even if his father wasn’t.

Another interesting detail Mimir picked up: whatever the boy was, whatever powers and domains he might have held sway over, they weren’t immediately obvious. They simmered deep down inside him, like the first sparks of a fire not yet fully lit. Even at his age, those sparks should have solidified into _something_. Mimir had Magni and Modi figured out within a few years of their being born (and they were just like their father, the both of them: petrichor, heavy mead, and the ringing in your ears after a clap of thunder). But _this one…_

_Ah._ He didn’t know. And when Mimir pointed that out, the man made it very clear it was _not_ a topic to be discussed. Mimir wasn’t going to argue the point, not when it was becoming increasingly clear this one had seen war. He was _built_ for it, wearing his armor like a second skin, carrying an axe as if it were a part of his body. He probably could’ve snapped Mimir’s tree in half with his bare hands, had it been an ordinary tree. Definitely _not_ someone to be trifled with.

While the man wasn’t eager to discuss himself, he _was_ curious about Mimir. That made Mimir follow his first impulse: making himself look as good as possible. It seemed they were both enemies of Asgard; it couldn’t hurt to try and seem useful.

_They call me…Mimir! The smartest man alive. And I have the answer to your every question._

Every question except the one the man immediately asked: what Baldur wanted with them. _Shit_. Mimir’s mind raced for an explanation. He didn’t want to speculate; the stranger didn’t look like a man who appreciated baseless speculation. And what _was_ that accent? Something from the south, Mimir was sure, further south even than where he’d lived, but Oberon’s court had been to so many realms…

He shook off the thought, explained that he’d been imprisoned, tried not to feel ill at the realization of how long it had _really_ been— _109 winters_ , had it _really_ been that long?—and promised that he could figure it out, pathetic as the promise made him feel. Before he could feel _too_ much self-loathing at how desperate he sounded (or felt he sounded, perhaps he’d been able to hide it), the boy trotted back over, confirming that they hadn’t been followed with the kind of exasperation only a very beleaguered child could express. He really was a fearless one, back-talking the veritable mountain standing before them both. Then again, Mimir supposed it was different when family was involved.

The man glanced down at his son. Mimir thought, just for a second, he saw some of the fire in his eyes soften. The moment was quickly gone, replaced by careful blankness when he explained why they were there. It was in memory of a dead family member— _the boy’s mother_ , the man said, spoken carefully, with almost the same tones Thor used when he spoke of Jarnsaxa. Avoiding a name to avoid the emotions that came with it. The only difference was Mimir felt that _this_ one actually loved whoever the child’s mother was. The boy spared his father by taking over, explaining that her dying wish had been for her ashes to be spread on the highest peak in _all_ the realms.

_Well, that’s a problem._ Mimir was torn for a moment between an instant liking for the boy (there was something kind and eager in his eyes, uncorrupted by the power that usually came with blood like his) and a sharp stab of sympathy. Hearing that they were at the wrong peak, was _certainly_ going to ruin their mood.

They didn’t believe him at first; the boy looked confused for a moment, then frustrated. Mimir saw the boy’s godhood then as the sparks in his eyes briefly flared and the blue of his eyes went frost-cold. Funny. Mimir had expected that anger to burn hotter. His father didn’t take it well, either, not that Mimir could blame him. They must’ve had a hell of a time making it up the mountain, especially if Baldur were after them. Coming all that way for nothing was probably devastating.

Still, it was the truth, and Mimir was able to prove it with the gift the giants had given him. Seeing the mountain on the other side of the travel gate made his chest ache; it felt like a promise of freedom, just out of reach.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was an opportunity here. The giants may have destroyed all other bridges to their realm, and locked this one up with a rune only a giant would know, _but_ …

_Fact is, there’s only one person alive who can get you where you need to go…and luckily for you, my schedule’s wide open._

The tall man considered those words, carefully removing a bag from his belt as he did. Mimir could guess at the contents, mostly based on how the man was holding it—gently, almost reverently. The first real show of emotion Mimir had seen, subdued as it was. It was a good sign: the late wife was clearly important to him, and thus the final task of releasing her ashes would be equally so. It was definitely important to the boy, if the look on his face was any indication. That and he seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing a realm long shut away.

Mimir really was starting to like him already. He wished he could say that positivity was the sole reason for his actions, but it would be a lie. He was just smart enough to see a way out and take it. No matter what the potential cost might be. And he felt like he was close; he just needed to give one more push. Mimir tried for practicality, pointing out (truthfully) that Jotunheim was the one place the Aesir couldn’t find them. The place where all _three_ of them could get what they wanted.

The tall man considered that as well, and re-attached the bag to his belt. When he turned to face Mimir, his face had turned to stone again, his mind clearly made up.

_What do we do?_

The boy cheered. Mimir could’ve cheered, too, but unfortunately, _he_ wasn’t out of the woods yet. Because the only way they could get him out was by cutting off his head.

The boy’s reaction to hearing that was almost funny. _Almost._ The dread of what he’d have to go through tempered any potential humor, as did the knowledge that this would be the hardest part to sell. Convincing them both that cutting off his head and reanimated it was their only option (though _bless_ the little lad for making an effort at cutting him free, Mimir did appreciate the sentiment) was like giving Hodr a bow and asking him to hit a moving target. Hearing the tall man mention a witch who knew the old magic set Mimir’s heart racing—made him think that maybe this mad scheme of his could _actually work_.

And then the man had to go and splash him with a cold glass of reality.

_If she fails, you will be dead._

Mimir had thought of that. Of course he had. He couldn’t call himself the _smartest man alive_ if he didn’t think of these things. He could try to lie his way out of it, or make a false promise that this would _absolutely_ work, but…he couldn’t. Some instinct told him to tell the truth—or perhaps spending 109 winters and countless years before that under Odin’s piercing stare had left him tired. Too tired to do anything but be honest.

_He tortures me, you know. Odin himself sees to it personally, and believe me, there is no end to his creativity. Every. Single. Day. This isn’t living._

And as long as Mimir was being honest, he didn’t think he could stand one more day of it. He was shocked he’d lasted this long. Then again, he had spent the entire conversation with Baldur hoping maybe the crazy knob _would_ just kill him, Odin’s wishes be damned, and now he was proposing that a strange god from a strange land cut his head off. So perhaps he wasn’t doing as well as he’d thought.

The man stared at him for a moment. Mimir wasn’t sure if the flash of sympathy in his eyes was real or imagined. He tried not to get his hopes up. Tried not to think about what he’d do if the man chose to walk away right then and there.

And it took _every_ bit of self-control he had not to sob with relief when the man drew his axe.

He seemed resigned to the violence; the boy, meanwhile, immediately darted away, which Mimir couldn’t blame him for. He planned on keeping his one eye shut as tightly as possible the whole time. _At least that thing looks sharp._ Hopefully, he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Hopefully if he _did_ feel something, it wouldn’t be any worse than Odin’s past tortures.

Seeing that the boy was out of earshot, and realizing that he was either about to be _very_ useful to this man or _very_ dead, gave Mimir enough courage to speak freely. Something had been bothering him ever since he’d laid eyes on them (besides the fact that he was trapped in a tree while a very large stranger with a very large axe stood menacingly a few feet away). It was the boy’s smothered flame, his utter lack of knowledge as to his father’s true nature— _his_ true nature. It reminded him of Thor’s boys again, of Magni growing up taller than his brother, half-giant on his father’s side, full giant on his mother’s, not knowing Sif wasn’t his true mother until _long_ past the time when that news would be easy to hear. Mimir remembered how that had ended. He couldn’t get it out of his head.

For all his ulterior motives and selfish behavior in the past few minutes, he didn’t want what was left of this family to suffer through the same thing.

_In case you can’t resurrect me, there’s something you need know. The boy…the longer you wait to tell him his true nature, the more damage you do. He will resent you, and you may lose him forever._

From the tenseness in the man’s shoulders, Mimir wasn’t the first person to say this to him. Perhaps his witch friend had, or perhaps he had been grappling with the decision for a long time. Even his explanation was weak, clearly more about his own comfort than what was best for the boy. Mimir even said so, though he regretted it instantly. Strange; where once he had feared violence for speaking out, now he feared a lack of it. He feared that the man would walk away and leave him there. But after the longest few seconds of his life…

_I’m going to cut off your head now._

Mimir really never thought he’d be happy to hear those words.

He distracted himself from the axe swinging down at his neck by pondering the man’s accent. He _had_ heard something like it before, he _knew_ he had. Back in the old days…he’d been sent on an errand, some tiff between Oberon and the lady Titania, something about a flower and a wedding? He was struggling to remember the names, but…Theseus was the bridegroom, he was sure of it. Who else was involved…Lysander? Demetrius? All of it someplace warm with olive trees and…

Greece? Had it been in Greece?

Was this man _Greek?_

_Well, then,_ Mimir thought just before the axe separated his head from his body. _This **really** should be interesting._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as screechthemighty if you want to follow there!
> 
> Fun fact: the first draft of this fic had literally all the dialogue from the game, but I ended up cutting 95% of it because English Major brain felt bad about basically just...ripping off the dialogue wholesale. Not sure how good a job I did, but I definitely did my best. The title of this fic is also taken from Mimir's dialogue.


End file.
